


Amor Mortis

by SaltySadi3



Category: CallMeKevin - Fandom
Genre: I Wrote This Instead of Sleeping, Jim is crazy but that's nothing new, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, idk where or when this is supposed to be in the timeline, it's legit 5am what the hell am I doing with my life, lets pretend it fits in somewhere, oof this is pretty dark sorry, prepare to confuse Reapers, this is probably a hot mess but whatever, welp here I am trying to write something for our dear leader
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-25
Updated: 2020-07-20
Packaged: 2021-03-03 05:07:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,572
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24369355
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SaltySadi3/pseuds/SaltySadi3
Summary: Jim Pickens is obsessed with the Grim Reaper. He goes as far as killing hundreds of sims just to get Death's attention. When the Reaper isn't impressed, Jim vows to make his vision come true...with various consequences.
Relationships: Jim Pickens/Grim, Jim Pickens/Grim Reaper
Comments: 17
Kudos: 34





	1. Chapter 1

The old man straightened, blood smeared across his lips, the taste of it sweet on his tongue. The woman’s body lay twisted at his feet, her mouth open in an eternal scream. The man closed his eyes feeling the euphoria slip from his fingers. Her screams had certainly been delicious, and she had put up such a fight. He looked down at her again with a thin smile, how precious. While he preferred the action of killing, he had to admit there was something captivating in the silent moments after. After the noise and heat and movement, everything stilled. Everything went quiet. He knelt, finding satisfaction in the violence left in the face and in the messy tears across her skin. He was not as precise as he usually was, this was the work of anxious, anger-filled hands.

He ran a hand down the woman’s face, gentle as he traced the soft skin. She would not become stiff and cold for a few hours yet. His gaze lingered in the clouded, emptiness of her eyes. Unseeing, unfeeling. He wondered if her soul was nearby, or whether it was lucky enough to have escaped to someplace else. He thought for a moment about reaching out, finding her soul. It would be easy enough, but ghosts were more trouble than they were worth. They were annoying and often broke things out of spite. Besides, torturing a ghost was never quite the same as a living body.

The nighttime air was bitter and the man shivered, looking to the star-filled sky. The moon was almost non-existent, the tiny piece of silver hanging just out of his reach. Once he had dreamed of touching them, to travel amongst astral bodies and fly far, far away from his father.

“Another one?” The voice was deep and melodic. The old man turned with a smile to his lover. “It’s been almost five hours since the last one.” The Grim Reaper finished, sounding miffed.

“What can I say? I got peckish.” The man waved his hand nonchalantly.

The Reaper growled, “I’m not some errand boy Pickens, I do have other duties besides cleaning up after you.” He glided past the old man, who watched with an amused expression. The Reaper looked down at the body and grunted. “Messy one,” he commented lightly, swinging his scythe over the body.

The old man furrowed his eyebrows, lips curling as he watched the body disappear with a brilliant flash of light. “I was...more passionate about this one.” He raised an eyebrow, “Does that matter?”

The Reaper shrugged. “It is of no importance to me.” Pickens scowled, kicking a loose stone as he faced the Reaper. “Ya know I’m getting the impression that you don’t care.”

“I don't.” The Reaper leaned on his scythe, a hint of amusement coloring his words.

“Look, I’m sorry for all the bodies okay? I’ve been...well I’ve been a little more stressed than usual.”

“Again, I’m not some personal clean-up crew-”

“C’mon Grim! It’s not like you have to show up right away.” Pickens’ eyes shone. “Or am I special?”

The Reaper sighed and adjusted his grip on his scythe. “As much as any other serial killer I suppose.”

The old man frowned, he didn’t want to be lumped in with some run-of-the-mill killers. He wanted to stand out, he wanted to be the Reaper’s favorite. “I see,” he said coldly.

“Are you done for the day?” The Reaper’s tone was noncommittal, slightly condescending and Pickens hated it.

“Hey, collecting souls is your job. You’re the fecking Grim Reaper.” he spat, anger started to burn his cheeks. “I thought you’d like it! I thought we had a deal.” The old man took a shuddering breath, trying to calm himself. “I did this for you...I killed all those people just to talk to you…” He took a step closer, reaching for the Reaper’s skeletal hand. “I’ve been obsessed with you Reaper. I’ve waited for the day you’d notice me, the day where we could become partners, where you’d appreciate what I was doing.” Pickens let out a disbelieving chuckle. “I mean, haven’t I done a good job? Haven’t I succeeded where so many have failed? I’m the most powerful man on this earth! I’m a god to them.” He squeezed the Reaper’s hand.“I take life as easily as I give it. And it’s all been for you. A gift, for my oldest love.”

The Reaper stood, tall and thin, with black smoke billowing from his skirts. His face was hidden beneath layers of shadow, and he gently slid his hand from Jim’s. He regarded the old man with a slight tilt to his head and a sigh that seemed nothing if not exhausted. “You’re not the first to proclaim himself God, and not the first to try and take my hand.” He might’ve smiled, somewhere beneath the black. “But I’m never one to be swayed by such boldness. You tried Pickens, and in some reality, we might’ve been something.” he paused, noticing the anger in Picken’s expression.

“I lived that reality! We were something! Are something!” The old man sputtered, hands itching for his knife. This was not the first time his heart had faced disappointment and it certainly wouldn’t be the last.

“And I’m sorry I led you on for so long...I will admit you are a charming man.” The Reaper sounded amused and it only served to aggravate Jim further.

“So that’s it? After all this...you’re dumping me?” Pickens snarled, a dangerous light in his eyes.

The Reaper nodded slowly. “In a way, yes. But I am still the Reaper of Souls. It is my duty to collect the dead and I am certain that death will continue to hang about your shoulders. So we will see each other again Pickens...just not in the way you hoped.” The Reaper adjusted his cloak, studying his scythe. “Think of it as...a business proposal.”

“Business…” The old man echoed, gritting his teeth.

“Yes, business. I know you were looking for...a more domestic approach but Jim…” The Reaper’s tone softened and the man’s eyes widened at the use of his first name. “I’m not made for that. I’m...well you’d be disappointed with me.” he laughed softly, and Jim wistfully wondered if the slight hitch in the Reaper’s voice meant anything. “But if it helps...Jim, I do love you.”

 _Just not enough to stay with me_. Jim thought bitterly and he looked up into the inky blackness of the Reaper’s hood. He knew that a handsome face hid there, with lips as soft and inviting as any living thing. His heart ached for something he was being told he could not have, and though it was an accustomed feeling, Jim had not forged a new life to be torn apart again. As he stared into the darkness he knew that if the Reaper would not take him willingly, he would have to find some other way to make him Jim’s. “I understand,” Jim said coldly, turning away from the Reaper. “Just...leave me alone.”

“Jim…”

“Go!” Jim screamed, wheeling on the Reaper with a raw fury that unnerved even the Reaper. Lightning crackled around the man’s form and the Reaper stepped back.

“I know that you do not...do not think so, but I am sorry Jim.” The Reaper waved his scythe and with a cloud of inky smoke, disappeared. Jim stood, chest heaving, and the beginning of tears in his eyes. Anger coursed through him, hot and electric. He snarled and clenched his fists, squeezing his eyes shut.

_One way or another….I will have you._


	2. Chapter 2

He woke to darkness. Suffocating, smoke-filled darkness that he couldn’t seem to escape. He blinked, but he saw nothing. Panic had begun, deep within his stomach and spreading outward. He reached out, bony hands grasping at empty air. He stumbled, blind and afraid, and wanting so badly to cry. He screamed. But the sound was raw and rasping and sounded much more like choked gasping.

“Hmm, another failure.” The voice was cold, calculated, but bitter. A shiver ran down his spine. _Monster_. The word was startling, and he wondered who it belonged to. “I’m sorry, my friend,” the voice continued, not sounding very sorry, “but I’ll have to let you go.” 

He barely had any time to process what that had meant before a searing pain flashed across his chest. It burned, burned down into his very soul. Smoke billowed around him, the smell thick with fire and ash and flesh. He brought his hands to his chest, falling to his knees as the pain overwhelmed his senses. He tried again to scream, to call out for someone, anyone, to save him. But there was only the voice, laughing and jeering at him as he began to lose consciousness and lose himself. 

And just as he was born into the darkness and smoke, he returned without a sound. 

  
  


Jim watched as the failed Reaper clone crumpled into a charred heap. He tutted, shaking his head. He could not afford this rate of failure. He was running out of time. (He really had all of eternity, but Jim was not a patient man.) He blinked away spots from his vision and ran a hand over his forehead, wiping the sweat away. Cloning spells took a lot of energy, so did the infusion of life. 

He shook himself and knelt by the body. It was wrong, too thin, the limbs too long, the face too warped. His lips curled as he inspected the inhuman specter. It was an ugly imitation of his lover, and his heart ached. Jim ran his hand along the body, muttering a spell under his breath. The charred body shuddered, shriveling into twisted, blackened bones. Jim sighed and swept the bones into the large pile of past mistakes. He turned his back on them, feeling the anger threatening to spill over. Jim took a deep breath and steeled himself. He was not finished, but he was tired. He gathered his jacket and spellbook and shoved the door of the shed open. Sunlight spilled into the little shed, golden and bright against the grey and dark. Jim gritted his teeth and swore under his breath. He hadn’t anticipated being out until daybreak. He closed the door and locked it, tucking the key into his pants pocket. 

Growling, he strode down the gravel path, too caught up in his own head to notice the hissing and moaning coming from the gravestones. Mist gathered around the stones, swirling and coiling into almost-human shapes. The former victims of Jim Pickens would not rest, _could not_ rest as their killer walked free. They were restless and angry, reaching out with fingers curled into imitation claws, faces masks of hatred and vengeance. 

Jim almost laughed once he felt the cold fingers around his neck. It was amusing to see them try, but Jim wasn’t in any mood to toy with the dead. He tilted his head and took hold of the ghost, ripping it from his neck and throwing it to the sand. The ghost moaned and bared its teeth, glowing white eyes wide and leaking misted tears. Jim only glanced at it, one eyebrow raised before turning his attention back on the graveyard where the smoky bodies hovered over their tombstones. Jim shook his head softly and with a dismissive wave of his hand, disbanded the ghouls. They went screaming back to the grave, sinking into the sands. 

Jim rolled his eyes, he appreciated a flair for the dramatic, but when it came to the dead it seemed unnecessary. If they hadn’t been able to escape him while alive, they certainly wouldn’t be able after death. 

Jim had created his graveyard within walking distance of home, and if the law enforcement in Oasis Springs had any competency at all, they may have caught on. But as it stood, Jim had nothing to fear from the keepers of justice. There was little they could do to him after all.

Home wasn’t very big. A small two-bedroom bungalow in the middle of the desert, with shitty appliances and plumbing that only worked every other day. It wasn’t luxury by any means but it was a place to sleep and really, that’s all Jim needed. For now, at least. As for his children, Jim supposed that if they really wanted something better, they should just leave. He certainly wouldn’t miss them. 

Jim stomped up the stairs, muscles straining and a nasty headache forming just behind his eye sockets. He threw open the door and dumped his jacket on the floor, kicking off his shoes. He locked eyes with his son, Beejey. The boy, who was not really a boy anymore, froze with a spoonful of cereal halfway to his mouth. Jim muttered something noncommittal and trudged to his bedroom, collapsing on the shitty mattress and feeling more tired than he’d ever felt. As his eyes closed he vowed to never spend so much life energy ever again. 

Beejey watched his father trudge down the hall and decided not to ask any questions. It would be better for both of them if he just kept his mouth shut. It’s what he usually did after all. Don’t ask, don’t tell, don’t even look. That was his self-imposed rule. Well, maybe it had been Tim’s rule first. Back when their father had started disappearing at night, coming home disheveled and dirty, smelling of either blood or sex. Back when Jim had obsessed over the rocketship gleaming outside in the desert sun. Beejey swirled his spoon around the bowl as his gaze strayed to the kitchen window. The ship was once Jim’s pride and joy. Tim often said, bitterly, that it was the only thing Jim loved. Beejey wasn’t sure about that, Jim liked the ship, sure, had labored over it for months, but Jim wasn’t one for love of any kind. If Jim loved anything, it was death. 

Beejey remembered the day his father had finished it. Smeared in grease and bleeding from a cut on his hand, Jim had beamed at his sons. He’d seemed happy, _giddy_ , even, and for once, Beejey wasn’t scared of him. He’d talked excitedly about what he might see up in the stars, who or what he might encounter. Beejey remembered getting excited himself and watching with wide eyes as his father boarded the rocket and took off for the great unknown. Tim’s hands were on his shoulders as the excitement faded into worry. Would his father return? Would he want to come back to the children he’d always found disappointing? 

The rocket was gone for two days. Beejey had waited anxiously, while his older brother had gotten increasingly happier. Tim had always wanted a reason to leave but had stayed out of a sense of duty for his younger brother. If Jim died in space, there’d be no consequences for freeing the slaves and escaping. But Jim returned, and he brought with him something neither of them had expected. 

“Boys, this is Avil Olzoll,” Jim said through a wide grin. Beejey just stared at the alien, who looked as uncomfortable as Beejey felt. The alien was tall and gangly, with bright blue skin and pointed ears. It looked human enough, but its eyes were deep whirlpools of ink, and it wore a white skin-tight suit that pulsed with a neon green light when every breath the alien took. 

“Hell-Hello.” the alien said, his voice was high and layered with about three levels of static. 

“Hi…” Tim spoke evenly, casting a suspicious look toward his father. Beejey could only stare, not quite believing what was right in front of him was real. 

It was real alright, Beejey mused as he shifted his attention back to his increasingly soggy cereal. But it wasn’t enough to keep his father’s attention long. Not when the creature had refused Jim’s offers. Aliens were rather picky about who they dealt with, and Jim with all of his controlling habits was not someone they’d wanted to be associated with. Not in the ways he wanted anyway. 

Jim had been angry, but he kept contact with the aliens, agreeing to work with them as they saw fit. Periodically Jim would visit their planet, sometimes sending Tim or Beejey in his place. Beejey had been impressed with the technology of the alien world and even more so with the aliens themselves, enjoying his time spent on Sixam. But this had turned to fear after overhearing a conversation between his father and an alien scientific officer about human experimentation and breeding. Beejey could only see the alien world in a sinister light after this revelation. 

But when Beejey wasn’t forced to deal with the residents of Sixam, he was sent on often dangerous exploration missions, ones in which he’d better find treasure or there’d be hell to pay. Sometimes Beejey wondered if the missions were only to get him out of the way. If that were true, he didn’t mind. He didn’t want to be in the way. Being in Jim’s way had...consequences. Most of which ranged from deadly to extremely deadly. 

Beejey sighed and slunk down from the barstool. He threw his bowl into the sink and stood there a moment. He felt oddly empty. His whole life had been dictated by his father, from birth to adulthood, every aspect. He looked down at the stupid outfit his father had forced him into for his own amusement. What was the point? He felt a sudden urge to cry. What was _his_ point? He gripped the sink and forced down the urge. If his father caught him crying… He shook himself and pushed a stray current of resentment away. These feelings would get him nowhere. He straightened, trying to adopt some of the calm, casual, demanding demeanor his father wore. He strode out into the brilliant sunlight, to the rocket’s door. He needed to get away, and with the rocket _away_ could be as far as he needed. He glanced back at the house once, and then with a sudden resolve back to the rocket. He would for once, make his own decisions. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Made major revisions 1/7/21
> 
> I like this version of the chapter much better, I feel like it definitely needed work.


	3. Chapter 3

The Reaper sat alone. He sighed, tipping his head back and relishing the moonlight. His scythe was casually propped against a poplar tree, the blade gleaming with soul-dust. There was a hush as the wind gently brushed trees and grass. It was calming, peaceful even, and the Reaper was grateful for the break. He reached out, threading his fingers through the graveyard air, feeling the soft currents below the surface.

Magic was a fickle thing, it rarely liked to stay tied to one area and yet it lingered in every corner of this place. It was a familiar sensation, as the soft blue swirled around his bony fingers. Yet, this place in particular...the things that had happened here. The Reaper shook his head and tried to push the memories away. They would only make things worse. 

“The stars look beautiful tonight.” The Reaper sighed and looked to the ghost that had materialized beside him. 

“I suppose they might, but I am in no mood to discuss trivialities with another human soul.” 

The ghost frowned and eyed the Reaper. “I didn’t want to-”

“You wanted to talk to me.” The Reaper raised an eyebrow, though his expression was hidden beneath the shadow of his hood. “And that is enough.” 

The ghost opened its mouth but the Reaper had already waved his hand. The spirit let out a startled gasp as it was forced back to it’s grave. The Reaper sighed, feeling tired. This was not the first ghost to try and speak with him, and it wouldn’t be the last. He had learned that conversations with human souls tended to become all about the unfairness of death and how they’d “deserved so much more.” He rolled his eyes. It was pointless, they were already dead, and he was not easily swayed into granting life. 

“They were right, you know. The stars really are beautiful.” The Reaper stilled. The voice was much too strong to be a spirit. But what would a human be doing _here_? He turned slowly to find an older man standing a few feet away, leaning heavily on a shovel. He was close to death, the Reaper could see the darkness curling around his shoulders, but for now he was very much alive. 

“Who are you and why are you here?” The Reaper tried to keep himself composed, even as the fire of rage stirred within his stomach. 

The man only smiled, his cold blue eyes crinkling at the edges. There was something predatory about him, in his smile, the shine in his gaze, the muscles wrapped around his thin frame. He hunched a little, and a scar ran jagged down his forearm. “You don’t know me? Amusing.” he chuckled softly and wiped the sweat from his forehead. “I thought I would’ve been on hell’s most wanted list.” 

The Reaper grimaced, noticing the smears of blood over the man’s cheeks and clothes. Another killer then, another Pickens. “Why would I care for some human killer? You give yourself too much credit.” The Reaper said, feigning disinterest. 

“Oh, now that’s hilarious.” The man said, something starting to burn within the ice of his irises. “Give myself too much credit? You are really full of yourself aren’t you? When they told me about the Reaper of Souls, The Embodiment of Death itself...they never said he was an asshole.” 

“Well, I have been called worse.” The Reaper shrugged and stood, leaning to swipe the scythe from its resting place. He looked the man up and down, finding nothing particularly of interest. Humans always felt like they were much bigger than they were. Compensation, he supposed. Yet there was a hint of understanding. From somewhere deep within his being, he _knew_ the struggle of wanting to be known in a too-big world. 

“Oh I’m sure.” the man smiled, all teeth. “But really, I am quite offended you haven’t heard of me. You’ve had to have at least _noticed_ my work? You’re the one to claim them after all.” 

The Reaper resisted the urge to sigh again. “Of course I’ve taken victims. But rarely do I take the time to inspect anything beyond the body lying in front of me. I’m not really one for art.” The Reaper smiled at the frustration written across the man’s face. “Trust me, many have tried to ‘impress’ me with their murders...and really? I don’t care.”

“B-But you’re Death itself!” the man sputtered.

“Yes. How observant you are.” the Reaper raised an eyebrow. “Just because I take souls and deal in the macabre certainly doesn’t mean I enjoy the blood and bones.” 

“Goddamnit!” the man swore, breathing heavily. “No one fucking…” He shook his head violently. “I’ve done so _much_! All I’ve wanted is validation! Recognition!” The man’s feverish gaze locked onto the Reaper and the Reaper was surprised with the heat coming off the glare. The human’s eyes almost looked...red. “I have not lived for millennia on this horrid planet just to be told I’m nothing. Not by Satan and certainly not by Death.” 

A shock passed through the Reaper. The way this man was speaking… “Satan?” he echoed and the man laughed hysterically.   
“Well duh!” the man rolled his eyes, which were at this point most definitely red. “Daddy dearest has never been pleased with me. He apparently ‘doesn’t care for human deaths’ it’s _boring_.” 

The Reaper swallowed. A demon then. Why was it always the demons? “So that’s what this is about,” he said, chuckling as the little demon growled. “Your father is just picky is all. Besides, human deaths are boring. Humans are boring.” 

“You’ve never been in the middle of it.” the demon tried to explain. “The heat and noise and blood.” its eyes had glazed and the Reaper shook his head. 

“I have. Maybe at the beginning, yes, but I have been doing this for a long time...it stops being fun after a while.” 

“You’ve just gone soft then.” the demon mocked, his smile widening unnaturally. “Too much work for you? Gotta have us do it all for ya?” 

As he stared down at the demon, who at this point was simply a man, something inside the Reaper snapped. He didn’t kill. That wasn’t his job, not unless he was told to. He had to clean up. He worked tirelessly, death didn’t stop because he wanted a break. Even now the bodies were piling up, and here he was, his moment of peace ruined by an overzealous demon. 

Wordlessly, he surged forward and grabbed the man by his neck. Magic burned around his fingers and deep into the human body. The demon inside squawked and wailed as the Reaper squeezed. The Reaper could feel the demon trying to escape, the wriggling dark energy fighting to flee the prison it had unknowingly created. The Reaper smiled as he infused the body with some of his own magic, keeping the demon pinned inside.

He threw the man to the ground and reveled in how something snapped. The demon let out a low moan and the Reaper let out a bark of laughter. He tore the shirt from the man and as the human chest heaved, he pressed the tip of his scythe to the flesh. Slowly he dragged the blade downward, cutting a thin line from the man’s sternum to navel. The demon howled from inside, trapped and feeling every bit of the pain the Reaper inflicted. Demons were, by nature, invincible to human attacks, but not against one of their own. 

“Please!” the demon pleaded. “Please I wasn’t...I just wanted-”

“You wanted to see me kill? Wanted to see me find satisfaction in death once more?” the Reaper laughed openly and darkly. He bent close to the demon, his fang-filled smile flashing in the darkness within his hood. “Well, you should be very excited about what comes next.” 

The Reaper drew back and slashed through his neck, letting the blood spurt before ripping apart the man’s chest. There was a cracking sound and more blood as the man’s organs were exposed. The demon screamed, loud and overlaid with a thick layer of gurgling as the body choked on the thick red blood. The Reaper tilted his head, studying the body below him. It had been some time since he’d properly inspected a human body, torn up or not. He had to admit it was fascinating, and he wondered if it were one of the reasons Jim enjoyed this kind of thing so much. He had to admit, the rush was addicting. But the body was failing fast, and so would the demon’s energy if the Reaper did not sustain it within the host. 

“...you...hhh..fuc..king...uhh bast...ard!” the demon hissed, as the Reaper stood above him. 

The Reaper sighed, suddenly coming down from the murder-high. But the anger still remained, a fuzzy backdrop against a chorus of conflicting emotions. He raised his scythe, his lips quirking into a half-smile. He glanced once to the heavens, and then to the pathetic demon below him. “You’re right,” he said smoothly, “the stars do look beautiful tonight.” And with one swing, he cut the head from the body.


End file.
